The Letter
by r4ven3
Summary: A two shot, set after Cotterdam. Ruth has been away from London for a year or so, when Harry receives a letter in the post. (Rated M to be on the safe side.)
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I wrote this 3 months ago, and had forgotten about it, so here it is.  
**_

* * *

It has only been since she's moved to the small cottage by the beach, tucked up against the headland, hidden by a grove of conifers, that she's been haunted by the dreams. After seven months of travelling around Europe, stumbling from one city to another, she'd decided that Cyprus is as out of the way and safe as she is ever going to be. She'd rented the cottage after only a week on the island, and it was on her third night in this place – this safe place – that she'd experienced her first dream.

The dreams began slowly, with just touches of skin against hers, and she'd wake to the smell of him, that familiar warm masculine scent that she'd loved. It would be in her nostrils, and so real that she'd turn her head, only to see the empty pillow beside her own, and then sigh with the loss of him all over again.

After a week or two, the dreams progressed. She'd dream they were kissing - deep, passionate kisses during which she'd push herself against him, and he against her. She'd feel his skin hot against hers, his beard growth rasping against the skin of her cheeks. She'd move her hands around his body to grasp his buttocks, and then she'd wake, her body aching for him.

By the end of her first month in Cyprus she is going to bed early, eager to be dreaming of him. By the sixth week on the island, she is touching his body intimately, and he hers. She feels him hard against her inner thigh. She is hot and wet with wanting, and then, just as he is about to push himself inside her, she wakes, panting, hot, her body screaming for him.

This last dream is repeated around twice weekly for three weeks, leaving her body aching, and her mind in a turmoil of loss, longing and regret. She'd sent him a postcard a few months after she'd left London. Perhaps the dreams his way of speaking to her – across the ocean, from so far away. Perhaps it is now her turn to again reach out to him.

* * *

Harry has grown accustomed to dreaming of Ruth being in bed with him. He loves the dreams, and equally he hates them. In the dreams they never fully come together. He wakes from these dreams hard and wanting her, and often as not he staggers, still half asleep, to the shower, turns the water on hot, and rubs himself to climax. Afterwards, he'll lean his head on his arms against the tiles, the water stinging his skin, close to tears, wondering why it was he'd not made more of an effort to clear her name.

She'd sent him a postcard, and he'd waited for another, but it never came. He goes to work, and he throws himself into his job. It is all he has left …... apart from her postcard, which he treasures, keeping it near him at all times.

And then, one morning – a dreamless morning – he gathers the mail, and beneath the credit card statement and the advertising brochures, there is a padded envelope with Italian stamps, and …... and _her_ writing on the front. She has written his name – _Mr H J Pearce_ – in bold strokes with a black felt pen. He takes the envelope into the kitchen, and places it unopened against the sugar bowl, watching it as he eats two slices of toast and drinks one cup of tea. _Her hands have touched this_, he thinks as he takes it in his hand. He holds it to his nose and sniffs it, but it smells like stationery, laced with the industrial odour of the sorting machines.

He is half way through his second cup of tea when he can wait no longer. He is already late for work, but for once - just this once - his personal life takes precedence. With a knife, he opens the envelope, and out of it falls a photograph. He picks it up, and gazes at the image of Ruth, dressed in a colourful cotton dress, sandals on her feet, standing outside the door of a villa (Greece? Italy?). He feels the tears prick behind his eyelids, and he brushes them away with the back of his hand.

Then it hits him. Why use a padded bag to send just one photograph? Very carefully, and wearing his reading glasses, he tears the padding away from the manilla paper, searching for something that wouldn't normally be there. Right at the base of the envelope he finds it – a tiny black rectangle. He takes it out, and places it on the table top. He recognises it as the data storage chip from inside a flash drive. He also recognises this is a job for Malcolm.

* * *

It is after lunch when Malcom enters Harry's office, the reconstructed flash drive in his hand.

"I haven't accessed it, so I trust it works. I also trust that when you attempt to access it, it won't explode, taking out the whole of Thames House."

"I'm almost certain that it won't, Malcolm. Besides, I won't look at it until I get it home. "

"You can guarantee the source, then?"

"Yes." Harry looks at Malcolm, his eyes challenging him.

"If it's from who I think it's from, will you give her my love?"

Harry sits back, shock visible on his face.

"Did you receive it in a padded bag?"

"Yes."

"Good. I taught her how to do that. Perhaps I should also have given you instructions on how to put the device into a flash drive."

Malcolm's eyes are shining gleefully as he leaves Harry's office.

* * *

After a late dinner of ready-made pasta, Harry sits at his computer in his home office and opens the flash drive. On it are two files – one is a photo file, with just one photo of the villa, but from a different angle, while the other is a document file. He opens the document file, to see a list of directions for reaching the villa. He prints off both, and then destroys the flash drive. He locks the printouts in his safe, and then heads downstairs for a glass of Scotch.

Sixteen days later, Harry is in Italy, and he has parked his rental car at the top of the drive which leads to the villa. It looks small and cosy, and behind it he catches a glimpse of the ocean, achingly, brilliantly blue. He sits for a moment, and watches the door of the villa, the same door Ruth is standing beside in the photograph, the same photograph he carries in the top pocket of his shirt, next to his heart.

It takes him a few minutes before he is ready to knock on the door. He wants to see her, but doesn't want to seem too eager, too desperate. The door is opened by a woman of around his own age. Her skin is tanned and weathered, and her pale blue eyes are kind and wise, and speak of a a long life with many lessons learned. She is dressed in lightweight beige slacks, and a sleeveless beige shirt. It is as though she's been carved from the cliff face. She stands in the doorway watching him before she smiles, and then speaks in perfect English.

"I've been expecting you. You'd better come in."

"I ….. I think I must have the wrong house."

"You have the right house. It's just that the person you're looking for is no longer here. She's …... well, I'll tell you more about that when you come inside. Would you like a cuppa?"

Harry follows the woman into the villa, where it is dark and cool. His eyes soon become accustomed to the darkness, as he follows her to a sun filled room at the back of the house. Here, there is a large window which overlooks the sea, and Harry can't help but stand and stare.

"Lovely, isn't it? By the way, my name's Ronnie."

"I'm Harry," he says, turning to face her.

"I know who you are. She told me a lot about you, including your name."

"You're English," he notes, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Yes, and my accent is pure Devon."

"You knew Ruth from …..?"

"I taught her in primary school. She was a remarkable child."

"She's a remarkable woman."

"Yes, she is. I lived only a few houses from her family home in Exeter, so we kept in touch, even after she went away to university. Then my marriage broke up, and so I sold my house, and came to Italy – chiefly to escape the climate. It was here I fell in love for the first time. This was Maximo's house, and he left it to me when he died. That was only two years ago, and I miss him every day." She looks directly at Harry, assessing whether to tell him more. "When Ruth turned up here almost three months ago, and told me …... what she told me, I offered to help in any way I could. When two people love one another, nothing should be allowed to keep them apart."

"How did you know I wasn't some serial killer?"

Ronnie throws back her head and laughs ….. a hearty, throaty laugh. "Ruth described you perfectly. She said I'd recognise you by your eyes and your voice, and she was right. I think I'd know you anywhere."

"And the padded envelope she sent me?"

"She sent it to me, and I posted it in Salerno. She hadn't wanted to be traced to where she is now."

"But you know where she is."

"I do. I'm to be your travel advisor and director. I've also booked your flight. It's to Paphos. In Cyprus."

* * *

Two days later, Harry drives his rented Renault along a rocky, uneven road which leads to a headland 8 km outside Polis, on the northern coast of Cyprus. He had not had the dreams since he'd left London, and so his energy is high, as are his hopes. Ronnie's instructions are clear, and he knows he is only moments from seeing Ruth again. He parks the Renault under a pine tree next to the lone, small white bungalow, and slowly and quietly steps from the car, and looks around. It is already early evening. He hadn't wanted to spend a night in Paphos. He wants to see Ruth, and he hopes his arriving as the sun is setting doesn't frighten her. Quietly, he closes the car door, and he steps towards the house. He hears a sound from the shoreline, about a hundred yards to his left, so he looks towards the beach …... and that is when he sees her.

Ruth – his Ruth – stands in waist deep water, wearing a plain black swimsuit. Even from a distance, he can see the plunging neckline, and his heart rate increases. She has seen him, and she is waving. He waves back. He uses all his considerable self control to remain where he is, and not tear off all his clothes, and run to her. Then he notices her gesturing to him to come closer. He bends to remove his shoes and socks, leaving them on the terrace, and then slowly walks across the sand towards her. All he can see is Ruth. All he feels is an incredible surging of love – and lust – for her.

He has reached the hard and compacted sand, and he can hear her voice as she calls to him.

"Get your clothes off, Harry," she cries, her face wreathed in a wide smile. "Come in the water with me. It's beautiful."

Harry stands at the water's edge, watching Ruth. He could focus on her bathing costume, and how good her body looks in it. He could focus on the strip of skin which is revealled by her deep neckline. He doesn't. All he can think about is how inappropriate it would be for him to strip down to his trunks – white, and practically transparent when wet – and join Ruth in the water. He has some red swim shorts in his bag somewhere, but he doesn't fancy digging around in the boot of the car in search of them. What bothers him most is that were he to join her in the water – wearing trunks, swim shorts, his chinos, even – he'd not be able to keep his hands off Ruth. He'd have to hold her, kiss her, feel her body against his, and then his self-control would crumble, slip and slide, and then disappear altogether. He'd no doubt have to make love to her, right there in the water, his back and knees aching and straining with the effort of holding her against him.

It would not be right for him to be pawing her, pulling off her swim suit, searching for bare skin. He respects Ruth too much for that; he respects _them_ too much to allow himself to do exactly what his baser insticts have always wanted. They were a restrained and dignified couple in love prior to her leaving London, and they need to be that way for just a few hours more.

Harry smiles at her and shakes his head. He then reaches his hand towards her.

"You come to me," he says.

Ruth pushes through the water until she is wading through the shallows. Harry is spellbound by her legs. He has loved Ruth for at least three years, and this is the first time he's seen her legs. They are sturdier than he'd expected, and suddenly – in one brief moment – he decides that his favourite kind of legs on a woman are the sturdy and shapely kind, the kind which can hold her body steady and sure, and power her through the shallow water when she is on her way to greeting her loved one after a long absence.

She stops when she is just a yard away, standing in water which is ankle deep. Harry's feet are wet, but the tide is now on the way out, so he knows his trousers will stay dry.

"Hello, Ruth," he says, smiling into her eyes. "I'm …... really glad to see you."

Ruth nods in agreement. "Me too," she says, as she steps closer.

They stand a little under a yard apart, and just stare at each other, drinking in the face of the other, before Harry reaches out with his hand and cups Ruth's face. She _is_ real, and she is warm and alive and well. Harry steps just a little closer, so that Ruth can rest her hands on his waist, while they smile into each other's eyes.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks so much to readers, and especially to reviewers.**_

* * *

Inside the small cottage, Ruth shows Harry to his room – next to her own (something she points out, glancing at him with a meaning he can't quite interpret) – and while he unpacks his bag, stowing his belongings in drawers, and a closet, she showers and dresses. Once the bathroom is free, Ruth calls out to him from his doorway.

"I've left a space for your toiletries in the cupboard above the sink in the bathroom," she says, as he searches for a storage spot for his empty bag. "You know, your shaving gear, and whatever else you use to make yourself …..."

"Presentable?" he suggests.

"I was thinking …... the word on my lips was handsome."

Harry shakes his head, having stuffed his bag at the bottom on the wardrobe. "Handsome is a word which describes other men, Ruth, not me."

"I disagree." Noting his discomfort, she turns away from him. "I'll make us some dinner. I hope you like fish."

"I'll eat almost anything. Do you need a hand?"

"You can choose the wine, and then open it and pour it."

"I think I can manage that."

* * *

"So you figured out the padded bag," Ruth says, as they sit at the table, the last of the wine in their glasses.

"Yes. And Malcolm sends his love."

"You told Malcolm?" Ruth's eyes widen.

"No. He guessed who it was had sent a memory chip in a padded bag. I had to get him to load it onto a flash drive."

Ruth nods, smiling down at her glass, which she is nervously turning around and around, watching the wine slide up the sides of the glass.

"Why didn't you strip off?" Her question comes out of nowhere.

"_What_?"

"When you first arrived. You must have been wearing underwear. You could have come into the water wearing …..."

"I …... I thought it best I didn't. Besides, when they get wet, my underwear is transparent."

"I might have enjoyed that." Ruth looks up at him through her eyelashes, the smallest of smiles on her lips.

"I would have felt embarrassed," he replies. "Besides …..." He thinks of the dreams he'd been experiencing, but decides it is too soon to be sharing those with her.

"I've been looking forward to your arrival," Ruth continues. "I've been having these dreams -"

"_Dreams_?"

"No sooner had I moved here than I began having erotic dreams …... you and me …... but we never quite made it to …... making love."

Harry is staring at her, and he can feel his face reddening. He can also feel a stirring where he'd rather there was no movement at all.

"What?" Ruth says.

"I also had dreams where we were together – naked – and yet I always woke up just before we …..."

"Did it."

"Yes. I loved those dreams, but …... we never …... so I'd wake up aroused, and have to …... sort that out in the shower."

"By `sort that out' you mean …..."

Harry smiles at her, nodding. They both know that were either of them to mention the word, `masturbate', the conversation would never recover. So, as is usual with them, the words they most want to say – _need_ to say - remain unsaid.

"I'll help you clean up the kitchen," he says, more to change the subject than anything else.

When the dishes are washed and dried, and the table tidied, Ruth announces that she's ready for bed.

"It's only 9 o'clock."

"I have a routine of retiring early, and then getting up at dawn, and taking a walk along the beach. You can join me in the morning if you like."

Harry watches her as she heads to the bathroom, and then to bed. He'd rather join her in her room, but her signals have been mixed, and he doesn't wish to raise the subject of sex, not on his first night with her. He yearns for her, but then, he always has. This is the way it has always been with them. While at work, it was easier to simply suppress his longing for her, to convince himself that one day they'd have more time, more space, more something else …... and within that `something else' they could pursue whatever it was that has always drawn them towards one another.

Once Ruth closes her bedroom door behind her, Harry heads to the bathroom. The night is warm, but there is a cool breeze, so after a quick shower, he dresses in a fresh pair of trunks, and slides under just a sheet, pushing the duvet to the end of the bed. His body is still warm from the shower, but after a half hour of lying on his back, his eyes closed, longing for the oblivion of sleep, he realises that what is keeping him awake is his constant thoughts about the person in the room next door. Switching his thoughts to what might be happening on the Grid, he eventually falls asleep.

* * *

Harry wakes suddenly, aware of movement on the bed, and a warm hand on his back. At some time, he has rolled on to his front, and as he opens his eyes, he notices a sliver of moonlight through the gap between the open door and the door frame. Hadn't he closed his door as he'd entered his room after his shower?

Then he feels the hand slowly begin circling the bare skin of his back, and he can't stop the shivers of pleasure which radiate across his skin, like the ripples on the surface of a pond. He sighs heavily, and then swallows. _What is she doing to me_?

"Ruth?" he says quietly.

"Don't speak, Harry. Just feel."

So he does. Once more, he closes his eyes, and he feels. He feels the cool air in the room around them. He feels the heat of Ruth's body through her fingertips on his skin, and the answering heat from his own body. He feels her fingers feathering along his spine from his shoulders to the waistband of his trunks. It is when he feels her lips on the skin of his shoulder that he attempts to turn.

"No, not yet, Harry. Stay there. Enjoy this. Let me …... bring you pleasure."

_Jesus_! He is already feeling pleasure …... surging, pulsing pleasure. When Ruth's fingers snake beneath the top of his trunks, sliding along his skin until she meets the rise of his buttocks, Harry reaches around and grasps her hand, turning his face on the pillow, so that he can see her. Very slowly, he turns on to his back, and he sees Ruth, dressed in a skimpy top, the outline of her nipples prominent under the thin fabric. Under the curtain of her hair, which falls across one side of her face, he notices her eyes travelling down the outline of his body under the sheet, stopping where it is clear he is pleased to see her. She reaches out with her hand, and is about to touch him there, when he grasps her fingers, pulling them back, and resting both their hands on his bare chest.

Ruth turns her head towards him, and smiles.

"Shouldn't we …... talk about this?" he suggests, his voice quiet.

Ruth smiles into his eyes. "I fell asleep waiting for you to join me," she murmurs. Her voice is like aural velvet, and again, Harry feels a tingling all over his skin.

"But you never said anything. How was I to know?"

Ruth moves fractionally closer to him, so that the ends of her hair tickle the skin of his shoulder. Her voice is soft and low – little more than a whisper - and as she speaks, her words wash over him like warm rain. "I sent you a map of how to reach me, and my friend organised for you to join me. We're alone together inside this house – a house with no close neighbours. How much clearer could I be?"

"You never once mentioned sex, Ruth."

"I didn't bring you here just to feed you fish."

Harry finds himself rolling closer to her, and he reaches out with his hand, and cups her cheek. "I'm a man. I need clear instructions in dot point form …... and preferably with attached diagrams."

Very slowly, Ruth leans down and places her lips on his. Her lips are soft and warm, and Harry allows his head to sink into his pillow while he closes his eyes, and enjoys the kiss. He soon finds that his arms are around her, his hands sliding under the fabric of her camisole, relishing the sensation of her bare skin under his fingers. He spreads his fingers so that as he glides his hands up and down her back, he is able to caress the sides of her breasts, and occasionally glance over a nipple with his thumb. He sighs into her mouth with pure pleasure, and he is sure he is smiling. Ruth is lying across his body, one of her hands snaking under the sheet, feathering down his stomach, until she reaches the waistband of his trunks. There she hesitates, and Harry very gently pushes his tongue into her mouth. Ruth's hand very slowly sneaks inside his trunks, and as she touches him – just a flick of her forefinger, back and forth against his hard flesh – Harry gasps

"Is that clear enough for you?" she asks, as they take a breather.

Harry nods, smiling. "I seem to remember what comes next. We're both a little over-dressed."

As if obeying some remotely activated signal, they each begin moving at the same time. Ruth leans away from him a little, so that she can more easily push his trunks down over his hips. Harry is doing the same with her underwear, sliding them down her legs until he can pull them away from her. As his fingers glide back up her legs, he momentarily slides them between her legs, across her wetness, and Ruth's response is to gasp, and then smile into his eyes.

He notices her watching his erection, her eyes shining as it bobs back towards his stomach, free from the restriction of his trunks. Harry reaches out to turn her face towards him, and she bends to kiss him quickly, before she pulls her camisole over her head, and tosses it on the floor.

Once she is naked, Ruth very gently lies over Harry's body. He feels her breasts pressed against his chest, and her heat nestles against his lower abdomen, as she lowers her mouth to his, and they briefly kiss, a deep and passionate kiss. Harry barely knows what to do with his hands. There is so much of her he wants to touch, to caress. His hands settle on her buttocks, as he pulls her hard against his lower abdomen.

It suddenly occurs to Harry that he is in bed – naked – with Ruth, and that in a matter of moments he'll be inside her. It is clear that Ruth wants this as much as does he, perhaps even more. He'd always believed it was he who wanted this, and that she was shy – too shy to show him her true feelings – and that hopefully – some day – he'd have the opportunity to woo her slowly. He'd imagined having to carefully approach her, coaxing her into believing that it is safe to be this close to him. He may have waited years for this, and while most men he knows would long ago have moved on to fresher fields and more willing partners, he has been content to wait until the time is right for he and Ruth …... and it now appears that their time has come. He cannot remember when last he felt this content, this joyful.

He closes his eyes, and allows the woman he loves to lead the way.

* * *

Once they've cooled down, they lay in silence, their arms around one another. Harry is barely capable of speaking. Ruth had collapsed on top of him, and very gradually, she has moved to lying beside him, one hand on his chest, where her fingers draw designs on his skin. Every few minutes, Harry kisses the top of Ruth's head, while she kisses his shoulder, before circling the skin of his chest with her fingers.

There is so much they each want to say, and neither knows quite where to begin. Those moments after making love are so delicate, the air still charged with their cries as they'd climaxed, with each waiting for the other to be the first one to speak. The future looms before them, but neither wishes to be the one to bring it up. They each listen to the gentle breathing of the other.

Ruth can't bear the silence, so she speaks the question she most wants answered.

"What happens to us when you return to London?"

Harry turns his head to face her, and it is only then he shares with her the future he has planned for them.

"Is this really what you want, Harry?" Ruth asks, once Harry has finished speaking.

"Yes ….. but only if you're with me."

Ruth reaches across to kiss him fully on the lips, before settling herself against his side, inviting sleep.

Ruth misses her morning walk, the call of the sand and sea being drowned out by the attractions inside her cottage …... specifically, those in the second bedroom.

* * *

3½ months later – Italian coast, south of Salerno:

Ruth rushes down the stairs of the villa, hoping the car engine belongs to a rental car, but she is only mildly disappointed to see Ronnie's tanned figure standing the other side of the front door, her hand resting on the door frame.

"If you come in, you have to help me unpack, and then move furniture around," Ruth warns her.

"That's why I'm here," Ronnie replies, making mock rolling-up-sleeves motions on her bare, brown arms. It is only 23 degrees, but Ronnie dresses the same, no matter the weather.

Three hours later, the two women are sitting at the large wooden table which graces the middle of the kitchen, each with a cup of coffee.

"When do you expect him to arrive?" Ronnie asks, blowing across the surface of her coffee to cool it.

"Any moment. He left London five days ago, and he'll take a winding route across Europe …..."

"Just in case."

"Yes."

"Well, I'll leave you to it, Ruth. I know you'll not be welcoming visitors once your man arrives, so when you're again ready to address the outside world, give me a ring. I'd love to have you for dinner, of course, but not until after you've -"

"- welcomed Harry to Italy."

Ronnie's face creases in a grin. "What a delightful euphemism."

* * *

48 hours later – Ruth's villa south of Salerno, Italy:

Ruth is on her way back to the villa from her beach walk when she notices an unfamiliar car moving slowly down the driveway from the road. She knows there is a chance it could be Mace's men, but she's prepared to take that chance. She runs across the sand, and quickly climbs the steps to the terrace. She pulls open the door to the kitchen, and runs through the rooms to the front door, where she opens it, just before the person the other side has a chance to knock.

"Ruth," says the man with the hazel eyes, before he folds her into his warm arms, and kisses her.

"Welcome, Harry," she says. "Welcome home."

She grasps his hand, turns, and leads him through the front door into their home, their sanctuary.

_Fin_


End file.
